The Book of Silence

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  A crowd had gathered in the market, clustered about Kyrith’s body. Garth was tall enough to see over their heads and noted that they were maintaining a respectful distance. A young boy had clambered up on the base of the statue that stood near the center of the market, a statue that had once been a young thief who had been petrified by a basilisk by the order of the previous Baron of Skelleth.

  The crowd’s presence irked Garth; it did not seem fitting that these members of an inferior species should cluster around Kyrith’s remains like a pack of wolves around a dead warbeast. “Get away!” he bellowed. “Go home, all of you!”

  Startled, the townspeople’s faces turned toward him, but no one moved to depart until he picked up two women on the northern fringe, one in each hand, grasped by the shoulder, and placed them off to either side. They backed away, rubbing where his hands had gripped, and the rest of the villagers backed away as well.

  “Go home!” Garth bellowed again; he drew his sword for emphasis, and people began vanishing into houses and down streets. A moment later no one remained in the square but himself and Saram, both standing over Kyrith’s body. Koros stood nearby, as it had stood since its arrival in the market, the copper gull gleaming dully on its back.

  Saram watched Garth closely, waiting for him to speak.

  The overman spent a few seconds staring down at his dead wife’s face. It was sinking in that she was really dead, gone forever. She had always been his closest companion in Ordunin, much more so than his two remaining wives; he regretted, now, that he had spent so much of the last few years away from her.

  Word would have to be sent to Ordunin. She had kin there, not just her sister and co-wife Myrith, or her other co-wife Lurith, but two brothers and a few nephews and nieces. At last report, her mother was still alive. Kyrith, alone of Garth’s wives, had no children; Garth had regretted that before, but now it seemed almost comforting somehow. Fewer people would grieve over her loss.

  The overmen of the Northern Waste were not much given to elaborate ceremony and did not bother with funerals after the human fashion; since most had no belief in an afterlife of any sort, there was no religious necessity for them. The custom was, rather, to combine the disposal of the body with the division of property, whether by the reading of a will or by adjudication. The body itself was ordinarily sunk in Ordunin’s ocean or buried in more inland regions, without fanfare, once the property settlement was announced and no doubt remained of the subject’s identity and death.

  That would not be appropriate here, Garth decided. Shipping the body home would be difficult and unpleasant, and the people of Ordunin would think it wasteful and eccentric, at the very least. Holding the reading of the will in Skelleth would seem equally bizarre to all concerned, since, save for himself, none of her heirs were present or likely to turn up; to the religious and sentimental humans, it might well seem callous and disrespectful.

  There was certainly precedent for separating the ceremony from the burial; overmen who died at sea were simply tossed overboard, and the ritual of legacy was performed later on shore. A death in a foreign land, it seemed to Garth, would follow the same pattern. He would see the body interred in Skelleth, and Kyrith’s other family would hold the ceremony in Ordunin, without either Garth or the corpse.

  To keep up the dignity of his species among the humans of Skelleth, Garth knew that some sort of ceremony, though perhaps not a real funeral, would be in order. He would have to devise something.

  For the present, however, there was no hurry. He knew that humans waited as much as two or three days before burning or burying their dead. He wanted to use that time to consider how best Kyrith’s memory might be honored. He recalled what he had heard of human customs and broke the silence by saying, “She must lie in state.”

  Saram had been waiting for some such indication of Garth’s plans. “I will have a bier prepared immediately, in my audience chamber,” Saram said.

  Garth nodded, and the Baron hurried away.

  Once in his house, Saram summoned the nearest courtiers he could find and sent them to locate an appropriate platform and fine cloths to cover it.

  He knew that running errands for the overman would not help his image as an authority figure, but he didn’t much care. Garth was, after a fashion, a friend, and he had just received a terrible blow; one had to forgive him for failings of etiquette under the circumstances. Saram did not resent being manhandled and ordered about. He knew that he would behave no more politely or rationally if his own wife had been murdered.

  The very thought of Frima’s death gave him a moment’s discomfort; he shook it off and began planning what he could do to eliminate the cult of Aghad from Skelleth.

  In the square, Garth knelt and studied Kyrith’s body. It was not immediately obvious what had killed her; the wounds on her forehead and bound wrists were quite minor, really. He felt her throat, and although it was bruised and lacerated, she did not appear to have been strangled.

  He moved a hand to her chest and felt broken ribs.

  He stopped, withdrew his fingers, and stepped back. He had decided that he didn’t really want to know the extent of what the Aghadites had done to her; it was enough to know that she was dead and that they were responsible.

  The marks on her forehead would have to be covered, he thought, while she lay on display in the Baron’s house. The blood would need to be cleaned off her face. If he was going to subject his wife’s remains to human ritual, he would do everything he could to ensure that the ceremony remained as dignified as possible.

  Koros growled, and a shadow encroached at the edge of Garth’s vision. He looked up to see a human, covered by a loose, heavy, red robe, face hidden by an overhanging hood, standing nearby. The overman could not tell if the figure was man or woman.

  The people of Skelleth did not ordinarily wear robes or cloaks; the people of Dûsarra did, and this robe was the color of dried blood. Garth’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

  “What do you want here, human?” he demanded.

  “Greetings, Garth,” the creature said. Its taunting voice was male, Garth decided, and the man spoke in the guttural manner of the Dûsarrans. “I came to bring you a message.”

  “What message? From whom?” The overman wrapped his hand around the sword’s hilt.

  “We heard your oath just now, and your offer to come and visit us in Dûsarra.”

  Garth drew his sword, but did not attack; he was wary of unseen menaces.

  “You will be welcome, of course. We would be delighted to have you stay with us; on your last trip you rushed off so quickly! This time you really must stay to dinner.”

  Garth saw no sign of any hidden threat, yet the Aghadite messenger simply stood, speaking calmly, ignoring the overman’s bare steel.

  He was probably armored, Garth reflected. He thought that padding and metal would protect him. The heavy robe was to conceal the helmet and gauntlets that would have been exposed by the sort of tunic normally worn in Skelleth.

  “We have a request, though,” the Aghadite said as he extended a long, bare finger and pointed it at Kyrith’s body. “You bring the meat.”

  With a wordless bellow, Garth swung the sword.

  The blade struck the man’s robe and instantly exploded in a burst of red flame and splintered steel, leaving the overman clutching the useless hilt. The Aghadite laughed, but even in his state of unreasoning fury, Garth could detect the nervousness in that laugh, its forced quality. The man was not as sure of himself as he wished to appear.

  Garth tossed the broken sword aside and reached for the Aghadite with his bare hands.

  A wisp of red smoke swirled up from empty air between them; Garth ignored it as the man backed away hurriedly. The Aghadite was not yet running, merely stepping back, away from Garth’s outstretched hands. Garth knew that he could catch the man; no human could outrun an overman. He grinned
and advanced; the Aghadite continued to retreat.

  The red smoke thickened and grew, gathering about the human, and Garth belatedly remembered seeing a similar mist once before. With a growl, he lunged forward, wasting no more time. His fingers closed on the edge of the red cloak, then passed through, holding nothing but air. The Aghadite had vanished.

  Furious, Garth whirled, looking for other enemies, and with a cry of anguish saw Kyrith’s body disappear in a red cloud.

  He ran, but in the second or so that it took to reach it the corpse had vanished as completely as the Aghadite or the image that had spoken in the King’s Inn.

  He staggered to a halt in the center of the market, staring about wildly. Several of the people of Skelleth stood watching him, clustered in small groups in the streets that led out of the square. They muttered among themselves. Garth realized that they had seen the entire affair, had seen him humiliated, had seen Kyrith’s body stolen. They had done nothing; no one had moved to aid him.

  But then, he thought, why should they? He was not their kind, and the Aghadites were. At least none had joined in taunting him.

  “Leave me!” he bellowed. “Get away from here!”

  A few of the villagers obeyed, retreating out of sight; more did not. Garth glared at them, and a few more backed away; others met his gaze without flinching.

  Seeing no practical alternative, he resolved to ignore them. He turned and stooped to pick up the stump of his sword. As he did, Saram came running from the door of his house. The entire altercation had lasted only moments, and he had not at first realized that the noises outside were of any real concern.

  “What happened?” he called.

  “Shut up,” Garth replied.

  Frima’s head appeared in the doorway, but she said nothing. Saram came to a stop, looking about the market, his eyes returning regularly to the spot where Kyrith’s body had lain. He glanced at Garth, but did not care to venture a question.

  Garth stood, glaring at the hilt and the jagged shard that projected from it. Somehow the Aghadites had acquired powerful magic. They had apparently possessed some sorcerous devices or methods at the time of his previous encounter, in Dûsarra, but it had been his clear impression that they had relied primarily on trickery and simple machinery. Now, though, they seemed to be using real wizardry. The red mist that caused people to vanish had been used by the council of wizards he had fought, but never before by the priests of Aghad. The protective spell that had shattered his sword was nothing he had ever seen them demonstrate before, and the floating image that had spoken to him in the tavern was also new.

  He knew that ordinary weapons were not enough against magicians. He had defeated the wizards only by wielding the Sword of Bheleu, and it had been the sword that he used to slay the high priest of Aghad.

  He had given the Sword of Bheleu to the Forgotten King to free himself of its power, but now, he decided, the time had come to take it back. He would use it to destroy the cult, and then, he told himself, he would return it to the King’s keeping. He knew that Bheleu would try to reassert his authority, try to take over Garth’s body and possess him utterly, but he believed that he would be able to resist, to direct Bheleu’s destructiveness, long enough to do what he had to do. The Aghadites had angered the chosen of the god of destruction, and they would be destroyed in consequence. Garth would use any means needful to make sure of that.

  He obviously no longer needed to waste time on Kyrith’s funeral arrangements, with her body stolen; he marched north across the market and into the King’s Inn.

  Behind him, Saram, Frima, and several other people watched him go. When he had vanished through the tavern door most of them went on about their business, but Saram and Frima followed him.

  At his table in the rear, the Forgotten King sat exactly as he had sat when Garth left the inn. The overman made his way across the deserted taproom and seated himself, as if he, too, had never departed the place. Saram and Frima found seats at a nearby table, but did not intrude or do anything to draw Garth’s attention.

  The room was silent for a moment. Garth was aware of the two humans behind him, but did not care to acknowledge their presence. The King acknowledged nothing, merely stared at the table, as he usually did, his eyes fixed on the little spot of mismatched wood near the center. The Baron and Baroness watched, making no attempt to hide their concern for Garth; they watched, but said nothing.

  Finally Garth spoke, addressing the yellow-robed old man.

  “Greetings, O King,” he said.

  The King said nothing.

  “I have come,” Garth continued, “to ask that you free me from my oath, given three winters back. Return to me the Sword of Bheleu and release me from my commitment to aid you, and all will be as it was.”

  The old man gave no sign of replying, but Saram burst out, “Garth, have you gone mad?”

  “Silence, human,” Garth said without turning. “This is not your affair.”

  “Garth, that thing will possess you again and drive you mad! You might destroy Skelleth again, and that means it is my affair. I cannot allow you to take back the sword!”

  “Silence!” Garth bellowed. “Saram, I need that sword to take my vengeance upon Kyrith’s murderers; their magic protects them from ordinary weapons, and I have no other magic available.”

  “I cannot allow it,” Saram insisted. “Not in my village, not while I am Baron.”

  Garth turned to face him and said, “I have no intention of staying in Skelleth with the sword. Once I have slain whatever Aghadites I may find here, I will go to Dûsarra to destroy their temple, as I have sworn to do. I may not return. If I do return, I will try my best not to bring the sword back with me. If I do bring it, rest assured, I will be doing everything I can to keep myself free of its control. I do not like the sword, but I need its power. Now, be quiet!”

  Saram had half-risen as he protested, and would have stood and argued, but Frima was pulling at his embroidered sleeve, urging him to sit down again and listen. Reluctantly he yielded and sank back into his chair.

  Garth glared at him for a second, to be sure he was done arguing for the present, and then turned back to the Forgotten King.

  “Your pardon, O King. I ask again, let us abandon our agreement, and return to me the Sword of Bheleu.”

  The old man spoke, without looking at the overman. “No. You must being me the Book of Silence.”

  Garth hesitated. He could no longer agree and simply hope that he would not be asked to deliver; the King had remembered, just minutes earlier, where he had left the book, where it might be found and recovered. Garth had hoped that by taking back the sword he might avoid the problem and retain his pretense of honor; it now appeared that he was not going to be allowed that luxury.

  Now that he took the time to think about it, even through the haze of his righteous rage, he realized that he had been ridiculously optimistic. The King had no reason to free him of his vow. He cared nothing about whether he had the Sword of Bheleu or not; he wanted only to have the Book of Silence.

  No, Garth corrected himself, that was not quite right. The old man’s greater magic required both the book and the sword, if the overman had understood him correctly. That made him even less likely to agree to give up both.

  “Let us forget my oath for the present, then,” Garth said. “I will not ask you to renounce it, but rather will ask simply that you return to me, only temporarily if you would prefer it so, the Sword of Bheleu.”

  “If you do not renounce your oath, then when will you fulfill it? I have told you that I know now where the Book of Silence is.”

  Garth struggled to keep his anger under control, not to lash out uselessly against the old man. His face was so slack and expressionless with rage that he appeared almost half-wilted, like a drunkard or one under the influence of narcotic potions. He still held the fragment of his sword; to disp
el some of the tension in his body he rammed it down against the table. The jagged, broken edge bit into the oaken tabletop, scarring it, but did not embed itself as a real blade would. Instead, it turned and skidded across the surface, gouging up curls of wood. Garth’s wrist was twisted painfully, and his sore knuckles scraped as well.

  The pain added to his fury, and he lost control, blurting out the truth. “I have no intention of fulfilling my oath, foul deceiver. You extorted my agreement, knowing I had no choice. I would rather die in disgrace than aid you.”

  Behind him, he heard Frima gasp, and Saram draw breath.

  The King lifted his head slightly and murmured, “Your word is not good? Your sworn vow means nothing?”

  Feeling cornered, his fury subsiding as he realized his mistake, Garth replied, “No.”

  “The vow you swore in this place not an hour ago is meaningless?” The old man’s voice was a low grating that tore at Garth’s nerves.

  Rage flowered anew, and Garth said, “I did not say that! I will destroy the cult of Aghad.”

  “Can one oath be binding and another meaningless, sworn by the same tongue?”

  Garth, trapped, said nothing, and a moment of tense silence ensued. Saram and Frima dared not speak.

  “Garth,” the old man said at last, his voice more nearly normal, but with a trace of either sorrow or sarcasm in it, “I regret to hear this. If you are not bound by your oath, then I must propose a new bargain. You want the Sword of Bheleu so that you may destroy the followers of the god of hatred and those responsible for the death of your wife. I want the Book of Silence so that I may perform a certain magic that will cause many deaths, my own among them. I will not give you the Sword of Bheleu at present, but we both may yet have what we want. You want the Aghadites dead. I want to complete a spell that will kill them.”

  He paused, and Garth said, “What?”

  The King lowered his head again and said nothing.

  “Do you mean that your magic will destroy the cult?”